Archive of Our Own ^beta

December 1916

"Over by Christmas," Armin muttered flatly. His unfocused eyes shifted to the right and landed on Eren. Slowly, his lips parted and curved into a hollow smile. Vacant eyes. Half empty mouth, after a few mishaps. "Over by Christmas, Smith."

Eren rolled his eyes, roughly rubbed his hands together and pinched at the cigarette between his lips. It was only recently that he had become good enough at smoking that his lie about his age was believable. Not that it mattered at this point, sitting in a trench, up to his ankles in muddy sludge and barely able to distinguish cigarette smoke from his own condensed breath. 

"Stop calling me Smith," He grumbled in the half second before he was coughing hard enough for his lungs to tingle with the effort. He sniffed loudly and swiped at the snot freezing in his nostrils. 

"Ha ha ha." The sound made a knot in Eren's stomach tighten. He relaxed his hands from the fists they had suddenly become and he sucked deeply on the cigarette. He coughed again, great, hacking sounds that had earned him a clip around the ear in the past, are you trying to give away our position, Barbarian as though the general direction of the trenches wasn't target enough for the Hun. 

Armin actually did laugh at that and Eren wondered whether the resentment was mutual.

"You don't need to keep going on about Christmas," Eren grunted. "Nobody made you enlist." 

For the first time in months, Armin's eyes were not quite as vacant as Eren had grown used to seeing. He sat up, winced, and clunked his bayonet on the swollen wooden planks beneath their feet.

"You did," Armin accused.

"No, I did not. You came after me because you could not bear how mundane your life would be without me."

"Shut up."

Despite how numb his extremities were, heat sparked in Eren's chest. He kneeled up and leaned right into Armin's face. He said, "That is no way to speak to a fellow soldier, Smith."

Immediately he stood, stamping on the hardening mud that crusted the floorboards. He barely managed to stay standing and his feet were as dead as ever. He was glad of being able to stretch as he thunked his way up the ladder against the wall of the trench. 

Nothing. He could only hear Armin breathing behind him. The blackness of the night spread all around and even by squinting Eren could not even make out the vaguest of shapes along the run of his own trench, let alone anything that stood on the other side. Even removing the cigarette from his lips to eliminate the haze of smoke in his vision did nothing to clarify the surroundings. Keeping watch was pointless unless a hundred Germans leapt over the top of their trenches and charged and flung round after round of shells their way.

It wasn't likely to happen on a night like tonight.

The war was supposed to have been over by Christmas. Two years ago. The deadline for the war's end had passed before Eren and Armin's troop had even been deployed and it was becoming more and more apparent that the war wouldn't ever end. Perhaps the enemy should consider a midnight ambush every now and then. At this point Eren wouldn't mind being on the losing side. He knew a bit of German so he was certain he could survive the changes brought on by a new world. Of course there was always the infinitely more preferable possibility that he could die.

He stuck his cigarette back between his lips and inhaled gently, the tip glowing orange. A tiny sun bright enough to blind Eren. The only thing pulled in by its gravity was Eren's realisation that he was an idiot and he had in all likelihood sentenced his entire regiment to death.

"Shit," he hissed, exhaling fast and stubbing out the cigarette on the hard packed earth under his chin. He jumped down from the ladder, his landing startling another spark of life into dead-eyed Armin.

Without the cigarette it should have been easier to breathe. He couldn't remember how to regulate his inhales and exhales. He was forgetting how to do anything other than suck in loud sharp breaths that never went anywhere. There was a fuzz in the back of his skull and his vision was clouded. The only sound was that of wheezing sobs until a thunder of boots startled him into breathless silence.

"Which of you fucking idiots-"

He was no more senior than Eren and Armin, the solider that had run right up to them, probably just as underage as they were, and the inexperienced fear was evident in his pale, drawn face as he wordlessly gaped at Eren.

"Barbarian," was all he was able to mutter.

Eren didn't even have it in him to glare in response to the nickname. He shook his head and mouthed an apology.

"I was on my way to relieve you of duty, but," He inhaled loudly enough for Eren to hear, "Seeing as it is you I don't think I will take my chances right in the middle of the target you painted for the Boche." He retreated, his footfalls resounding on the muddied wood until Eren was left with the sounds of his own laboured breathing and Armin's  murmured giggles.

January 1917

Jean sighed. He could see his breath in front of his face, curling and blooming. He was sick of constantly being moments away from freezing solid. He hated having to nod like a trained pup to the Germans and pretend that he cared whether they won or not at this point. He had said as much to Marco once and was chastised in return for his insubordination. Or something like that. he tended not to listen when Marco began waxing poetic about the good Germany did for little old Austria.

In all honesty Jean didn't actually have a problem with Germany as a whole. He didn't have the upbringing to care greatly about the politics of everything and he didn't see any chances of the interest flourishing. His problem was with a few specific Germans who expected him to act as a trained pup - Yes, Sir. No, Sir. Three bags full, Sir - and no matter what Marco said he didn't recall these specific three Germans bathing him and feeding him throughout his infancy. If it took the entire war being lost just for the chance for a handful of men to die, Jean wouldn't mind it at all.

A week or so ago he had spotted a light in the distance. He was certain of it. A pinprick of orange that could easily have been Jean's eyes straining themselves in their desperation to see something. He had been told to report everything he saw to one of the three he hated. He kept watching. The light glowed brighter against the floating dust in his vision before it disappeared. Whether it was extinguished or he had imagined it all along, Jean could not be sure. He said nothing about it all the same. 

Jean hoped that it had been a careless soldier from Britain or France. He hoped they were stupid and daring and risking everything to get one over on their opponents. He hoped the soldier was making their way across No Man's Land to slip into these trenches and snap the necks of every man they saw. 

Jean would take a snapped neck if it meant Bossard went down too.

"How are you, Jean?" Jean rolled his eyes. Marco had been trying to learn Hungarian for months, something about it strengthening the bonds of the empire, but his pronunciation was still terrible. That had been the first sentence he had learnt to say from a pretty Hungarian girl with dark hair and a wheezing laugh. Marco had parroted the words to the girl a few times, tilted his head and grinned with his whole being as he asked Jean for the first time. His joy at saying something so simple to Jean had never diminished even though Jean's tolerance for it had died long ago.

"Unfortunately I'm not dead yet."

"Jean!" Marco sank to the ground next to Jean and swatted his arm ineffectually.

"Just shoot me or something. Please."

"That's not funny," Marco said. He attempted to say something in Hungarian, probably just repeating the phrase in a different language, before giving up and switching back to German. "Cheer up."

Jean absolutely refused to cheer up.

March 1917

Mikasa Ackerman was exhausted.

Had she been at home it would have been remedied by informing one of the servants. Manpreet probably would have been the one to lead Mikasa up the stairs and to her room, turn down the bedclothes and light some incense before braiding Mikasa's hair and helping her dress.

Unfortunately she was not at home. She was in a country with much brisker air and much brisker civilians.  The glances she received matched the blustery weather that froze her ankles and pelted her with sharp leaves. The climate meant nothing to her. She had more than enough wealth to her name, possibly able to buy every inch of Iron of the train they were riding in. It was more than she could say of those who sneered through the window of her carriage.

They didn't matter. She hadn't endured the inconsistent sway of the ship to be glared at by strangers. She might have had the patience to deal with them if her journey had mostly been by train, travel to Istanbul before hopping on the Orient Express to Paris and then a short boat ride to port on British shores. Her patience had run out long before the ship captain informed her they were closer to Swaziland than anywhere else. British territory, perhaps, but not the one she wanted.

She had finally made it though. And now all that was left was a train ride to Birmingham and a hire car to the Shiganshina village she had only visited once before.

Greens blended and blurred with the pale golds and dry browns of fields in varying states of growth, the pale grey sky dulled the line that the very tips of the leaves on the tops of the trees made until they broke and another field was sucked into view. Mikasa searched for faults in the seat pattern opposite her for the entirety of the journey.

Once in Shiganshina, Mikasa thanked the driver for his help so far and asked him to wait for a moment, she only needed to check one thing. The Jaeger house was much like those around it, tiny, brown, dull. The bricked had eroded until the edges were weary and soft. Mikasa could tap her boot against one of the stones and it would crumble away. Not that she was here to deface any home.

She knocked the door and waited. There were no sounds from within but she gave the inhabitants another minute. No reply. It was to be expected. As she waited on the train platform, in the bubbles of conversations that were clear against the stream of flowing voices, she heard some women talk of others who were assisting the war efforts. Many had become  nurses, doctors, land girls, teachers, munitions factory workers. Perhaps Carla Jaeger had become one of those.

Mikasa returned to the car, slid into the back seat and requested to be driven to an inn.

*

Petra clutched at Rico's hand, squeezing it between her own and stroking the alpine knuckles. Her Russian was odd, something Ymir could not quite follow as she sat at the table opposite the two softly smiling women. Ymir had reached the point where she had given up on asking Petra to repeat herself.

She claimed to have been from the East but at times she was nigh unintelligible. Maybe she had East Ukrainian sentiments but both Petra and Rico had their own opinions on how to properly speak Russian. They were nice even if they were completely wrong.

Ymir hummed in all the right places and sipped at her water. She could always go to the bar and ask for something a bit stronger. She was a soldier after all. Surely it would only be fair to let her have something better as she was laying her life down for her country. She glanced at the barmaid. Pretty. Big arms though. That would have been a nice change, a face of an angel pinning her where she lay completely at the mercy of this woman all for the sake of a few drops of alcohol.

It appeared that Ymir had already been beaten though. She was stuck pretending to understand what her companions were saying as the barmaid smiled gently and beckoned a soldier to join her in the back.

Ymir didn't fancy her chances with the granite-faced man behind the bar who glared at anyone who was bold enough to attempt to ask for a drink.

It was better that Ymir didn't have anything to drink. Inebriation would only be so fun before the rigid marching and  obedience would drive a hung-over mind to the brink. She hadn't come through all of the training, seeing off over a thousand eager women to end up as one of the three hundred most regimented, dedicated women.

She decided it was best just to keep listening to the few words she could understand and await the battalion's assignment.

April 1917

The war had been ongoing for far too long. Sasha's stomach contracted around the emptiness there. Her face didn't betray her. She had become used to smoothing her face over the rumbling pains that came from within. She had heard others mention a decreased appetite, as though the lack of food made them lack a need for food. They were liars. She knew how to distinguish people's lies about their hunger. 

Connie was the biggest liar of them all. 

He ate slowly these days, chewing methodically before handing over whatever it was he was determined not to eat. It was the same every single time.

"Oh, no. It's alright. I have my own," Sasha would say, holding up the meagre amount left, usually she would simply gesture to the few crumbs in her lap.

"Don't be silly. I know that you are still hungry."

Sasha knew that all too well herself.

"I will be fine."

"You need it," He would say, pushing the food back towards her. "Eat."

His words had a firmness that they never used to before the war began. In the past he would have wolfed his own portion down quicker than Sasha and would smack her hands if she even pretended she wanted to sneak away some of his food. These days he lavished her with his own self-sacrifice and changed the subject when he noticed her eyes linger too long on the jutting angles of his collarbones and the bones at his wrists.

Today was no exception. He pulled the cuffs of his jumper over his wrists and despite the guilt that occupied a corner of her stomach, she didn't have it in her to tell Connie that he needed the food more than she did. She picked up the bread that sat on the table between them and nibbled it slowly.

May 1917

"Hogy vagy, Jean?"

Jean was close to asking someone to shoot him. Marco had recently bestowed the extent of his knowledge of Hungarian upon a German soldier. Bertholdt's pronunciation might even have been worse than Marco's.

"Go away," Jean grumbled. He was reaching the point where he could no longer be bothered to point out that Bertholdt should not have even been in the Austrian trenches. Bertholdt didn't look too offended but Marco still kicked him in the foot before flopping onto a cot and pulling Bertholdt down beside him.

Bertholdt  was a tall German who always seemed to be carrying a full pack of Marco's favourite cigarettes. Recently they never left each other's sides and the constant, and incorrect, usage of Hungarian words was grating on Jean's nerves. 

Jean closed his eyes and pretended he was going to have a nap because he really didn't want to see much more after the possibly accidental, possibly intentional tangling of fingers as they reached for a cigarette each and shared a match to light them. This wasn't Marco. Marco didn't smoke. Marco didn't nearly hold hands with stupid, tall German boys he hardly knew. Then again Marco didn't hold guns and march for miles and trudge through trenches and maybe kill people.  

Despite being so sure about what Marco wasn't like, Jean could not be entirely sure how Marco actually did used to be. Nothing came to mind, not even when he screwed his eyes shut tighter and searched the deepest recesses of his brain for the memory.

"Would you like some, Jean?"

Jean was sure that he didn't want whatever it was that Bertholdt was offering so he kept his eyes shut and shrugged.

"That's fine," Marco said brightly. "That leaves more chocolate for the two of us."

Jean shot up, scrambling onto his knees and searching for the chocolate. Jean had never been too fussed about chocolate before it became such a rarity. So maybe he was different too now that Marco had his cigarettes and Jean had his chocolate.

July 1917

"You don't recognise me," the man said wryly. An odd introduction if Armin had ever heard one. It was followed by, "I am glad to see you in such good health this time."

Armin sat up in his chair and tried to assimilate the sharply parted blonde hair and the hard angled planes of the man's face in his mind.

"You most likely don't want to hear this," the man said, "But this is the most lucid you have been recently. The last few times I tried to come and see you they outright refused. On one occasion we almost did get to meet. Until something made you start howling and screaming and fighting against the doctors and nurses. I am not certain which I prefer."

Armin did not understand and he still did not recognise the man. He cleared his throat and shifted his eyes to scan the room for any familiar authority. He had not heard of any of the other patients receiving unknown visitors. They usually were deeply, embarrassedly familiar with their visitors. They shied away from glances or gritted their teeth and only released their clenched fists once they were alone again.

"I am sorry, sir," Armin offered politely, "I don't understand."

The man sat up straighter and hummed, his gaze flitting to a point above Armin's head before returning a much harder look on him.

"You must be able to imagine my lack of understanding when I received a letter stating that though my son had fought bravely for his country, he had succumbed to a sickness of the mind."

Armin's doctor had told him he was ill and on occasion he even felt ill though he could never be certain it was the same as when his doctor had told him.

The man went on, "I thought it was I who was ill. As far as I was concerned both of my sons died in their infancy."

A shuddering gasp escaped the man and he leaned back in his chair and focused on the damp day visible through the window.

Back in Shiganshina there were not too many people who had sons that died as young children. There was one man who lived alone, not too far from Armin's home. It was a house that was generally avoided, mentioned only in the same breath as speculation about the location on his wife. She had allegedly moved north after the death of their second child. A few times, Eren had wanted to play detective after being forced to read a short story about Holmes by his mother. Playing detective had involved setting up a den in the abandoned areas of the property and showing off to anybody who doubted his bravery.

"Mr Smith." Armin's voice cracked and he coughed lightly. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" The word was sharp as it followed the whip of Mr Smith's gaze returning to him. "All is forgiven, boy. Using the identity of one of my dead children, why, it is nothing. Entirely forgotten."

Armin's eyes stung and he couldn't pretend not to know why. He had to flutter his eyelids to keep back the threat of tears. He doubted Mr Smith would offer anything in the way of pity at the sight of them.

"I really am sorry, sir. I don't know why we did it."

"Because you are stupid, stupid children," Mr Smith spat, furious heat welling under the surface of his skin. Armin had never known Mr Smith personally. He could not conclude much of the man's temperament.  "Sneaking into my home. Stealing my things. Stealing my sons' things. How could your petty words make up for that?"

Armin was under no illusions that an apology would make up for any of the things that he and Eren had done. The boxes of documents stashed in Mr Smith's dining room came in handy a few years after they were found, when Armin and Eren needed some proof of identity for their next big adventure. Mr Smith's mysterious absences made the pair bold, never even bothering to hide the signs of their presence in his house.

Armin cringed. He glanced at the empty sleeve of Mr Smith's jacket. He remembered how sternly he was told by his mother not to stare when the man first reappeared in Shiganshina with one arm less than he used to. That was around the time that Eren first became interested in the man's home. That was around the time that Mr Smith stopped being a man who used to teach at their school and became the imaginary antagonist to Eren's foray into heroism.

"Did you tell my parents?" Armin asked quietly. He eyed each of the people who had entered the room since the visit began. If he had told the doctor that he was Armin's cousin it was apparently a vague enough connection to allow a visit. One person from home was bad enough but any more would seem strange. The other patients only had the same visitors each time. One or both of their parents, or sometimes a wife. If a man was visited by his wife once in two months, he was never visited by a parent. If a man was visited by one parent every week, the other would never appear. He couldn't risk anybody else coming.

Mr Smith shook his head. "I wanted to confirm it before I told them. They will be glad to hear that their son is safe."

Armin's parents would be glad to know that he was safe. He couldn't let them come here. He couldn't let them see the slobbering, groaning, shrieking men Armin spent every day with. He couldn't let them see him screaming until he felt more himself and his throat was too raw for eating to be comfortable. He couldn't let his parents knew he was one of these men.

The next word he muttered was lost to the miserable groans of a man seated at the bay windows at the far end of the room, his regularly visiting mother looking around in chagrin and apologising silently to those whose eyes she caught. His father stared blankly at him the way Armin always saw him.

Armin couldn't let his parents become like them. Let them become bitter and grief-stricken in only the way that one can after losing a child. Let them think one of their own was lost and would never return. Let them slowly heal, jagged and unsightly but able to breathe, able to pity those who had children that lived to become like Armin.

"Father," Armin said loudly, clearly, drawing the attention of those who were not too ashamed to look outside of their pitiable proximity. "I understand why you were worried I would not recognise you, but I do now. I have my physical health. I can only wish the same for my brother.  Do not be sad, father."

Mr Smith shook his head. "No."

"You must be proud of your other son at least. But please, find him. Try to find out where he is and let him know that his father is still proud."

Armin's legs were less sturdy than he had thought whilst sitting opposite Mr Smith on the too-plush arm chairs. He took one wobbly step and used the wide-eyed weariness on Mr Smith's face to steady himself. He was close enough. He leaned slowly, warning Mr Smith what was coming next. The man did nothing. Perhaps the corner of his lip tugged down and he stiffened and the initial brush of Armin's woollen tunic against his neck.

The embrace was loose. Mr Smith's build did not exude any semblance of fragility, despite his apparent loss of limb, but Armin had the sense not to press too tightly, not to treat this as a true reunion with a parent.

This hellish deed would join the others that made Armin mad.

"How am I supposed to-" A sharp puff of air against Armin's cheek and then Armin was tempted to apologise for this too.

"You don't have any business seeing them, do you? Don't tell them. Don't tell the Jaegers either."

Armin pulled back, collapsed into his own seat and sent a small closed-mouth smile in the direction of his doctor.

*

Mikasa stood outside a familiar house. The last time she had seen the building she and Eren and Armin had been crawling out of one of the windows and fleeing as fast as their legs could carry them as the man with one arm gave chase.

It was where Eren had built a den and insisted on showing Mikasa on one of her short trips in Britain. By then she had already been orphaned, alone with her fortune and her servants. She had scrutinised every one of Eren's gestures searching for the pity in every smile and every squeeze of her hand in his. To this day she was never certain of how genuine his affections towards her could be but she supposed there was a limit to how reserved one could be after going through what they had gone through together.

She moved on, already bored of the village. Several times she had seen the Jaegers, eaten dinner with the Jaegers, avoided conversation about Eren with the Jaegers. She was tiring of the village. The paths she trod were all too familiar now. She could identify ever person she met by face if not name and there was not a jot of excitement to interrupt the blandness of life in Shiganshina.

The sun was setting and still everything looked the same. Nothing was particularly interesting. Grass was grass. Weeds grew at the roadside. Stones and rocks had weathered over the course of centuries but since Mikasa had arrived they had remained intolerably constant.

Mikasa was turning into the alley on the way to her lodgings when she was shoved against the wall. She gasped at the painful scrape through her dress and glared at the person who had accosted her.

His hands were searching and he fumbled about her. He thought he had her but he was too preoccupied with searching to ensure his grip was secure. Mikasa managed to strike with her knee in several places before knocking him to the ground and kneeling on him. He squirmed and struggled underneath her but her attentions were not divided. She had learnt exactly how to incapacitate a person should she need to.

She struck across the back of the man's head and he whimpered. Good. She yanked him up and knocked him against the wall. The fear in his eyes was a pleasant surprise. It was something different to the mundane existence she had endured for half a year.

"I killed a man once. I was nine years old."

The man grunted, face pulling into a sneer despite his previous fear. "Balderdash."

"Do you think so? I was kidnapped. My parents murdered as I was forced to watch on. A friend came to rescue me. He killed two of them and compelled me to do the same."

"I don't believe that."

"Have you ever been to India, boy?"

He shook his head, his face draining to match the limestone wall Mikasa had him penned against. Good. Her lips curved cruelly and she stood away from him, the residual threat of her tone keeping him cowering.

The problem with the English was that if they had never been to the overseas territories of the British Empire, they could only conjure images of savage natives with spears and vicious tongues.

"Things are different in India," MIkasa said in a low, clear voice. "We dealt out our own retribution. The Gods are abundant in India. I even got to meet Shiva. Do you know what they call him? The Destroyer. He gave me some advice on the cleanest ways to destroy. I could destroy you and you wouldn't be able to do a single thing about it. Would you like a demonstration?"

He shook his head, mouth agape and struggling against the hand at his throat.

August 1917

"We did well today."

Sasha glanced up from the book in her lap and then returned her gaze to it. She didn't want to look at Connie. Not now. He was looking better recently. Her appetite had waned and after a fortnight of seeing her genuine lack of hunger, Connie reluctantly ate his food himself.

Connie's health was not why Sasha could not look at him. Today, in the village, some cruel women spat at Connie, swore at him, called him a coward, yelled after him as he ignored them. Sasha stared, wondering how they could be so brazen as to hurl abuse at a man who lacked a uniform. Connie himself had stopped his pace and turned his head to call out to Sasha. "Come on," he said, "We are going to be late."

She couldn't forget the faces of the women, the wounded pride in the set of Connie's shoulders, her own useless cowardice for not responding, for not defending him. He was left with his duties on the largest farm in the area. How were those women expecting to eat?

Sasha hadn't said a thing. Ducked her head and kept it down as she trotted after Connie and failed to ignore the barbed words that were aimed at Connie and caught at her skin too.

"We deserve a reward. Next weekend there is a fete down in the village. We should go together."

"Connie... Why are you still speaking to me?"

Sasha did not even have to look away from the printed pages on her lap to know what Connie's countenance looked like. He would look more poetic than he usually did, the straggling rays of sunlight coolly falling across the furrow of his brow and the candle in the barn casting ugly juddering shadows in the hollow of his cheek. "Do you... not want me to?"

"Don't be daft. It doesn't matter."

"Alright then." Connie paused, then. "We shouldn't work too hard until then. I hear the prize for Coconut Shy is very special."

The prize wasn't that special. Not to Sasha anyway.  She pinned her red rosette to Connie's shirt and smoothed down the cotton where it bunched around the metal skewered through it. She pinned it to the right, not the side that medals of a different kind were used to decorate. He posed, pulled a silly face and Sasha laughed through the grotesque countenance she replied with. She linked arms with him and dragged him over to the squealing roar of the emerald green steam engine that was billowing  white clouds.

She stopped short when Connie's feet skidded in the dirt and he was planted in the ground. Sasha tugged at his arm experimentally and he only lifted his gaze to hers for a fraction of a second.

"Connie?"

He cleared his throat and forced a laugh. "It's nothing. You should see your face though."

The beat of his laughter was off but his eyes were tight and his knuckles glowed white. She shouldn't say anything. She exhaled through her nose and contorted her features as she asked, "Was it like this?"

"I'd say it looked more like this." Connie countered Sasha's double chins and crossed eyes with flared nostrils and hollowed cheeks. Several hideous faces later Connie was in the lead, dragging Sasha to get a cup of tea and a buttered roll for them to share with the handful of /Mark/ in his pocket. He didn't even try to force Sasha to accept his half of the roll either.

When they returned to the farm they both went straight to bed, the deal being that they would have to work twice as hard for having the afternoon off to play despite the busy season. Sasha was glad of the extra workload. The next few nights, Connie slept like the dead and Sasha was able to sneak into his room to peer at the letters he had received by the moonlight that streamed through the bare window.

Squealing shells, barrages of bullets, slices of silver that seared the flesh from bones, choking smoke that clotted throats for days after late fumbles with gas masks, spurting scarlet, pooling black. Marco's letter was long, vulgar and Sasha read every word until her eyes blurred and her stomach became numb to the churning the first reading had ignited. Sasha was glad that Connie was here with her, safe, but he had lost whatever fight used to be in him. Connie's wit had become blunt and perhaps Sasha's guilt wasn't the only thing that she had to struggle to push her smiles past. Perhaps it was because Connie's own anguish was clear enough for her to see, twisting his words in Sasha's chest and shaving the traces of humour from his words.

Sasha glanced behind at Connie's still body before gently refolding the letter, replacing it in its envelope and slipping it back into the wooden box Connie kept. She didn't even bother looking for a letter from Jean. Whether he had sent one or not she had read a past letter and it was a dry read. Short, vague and nothing that captivated Sasha like the shallow rhymes and sharp barbs of Marco's letters.

She slipped from the room and gently took each step on the floorboards until she made it back to the room she shared with a couple of other land girls.

October 1917

Owen held out a copy of The Hydra and Armin took it with a quiet thanks.

"I know you like to read it, Smith, so I made sure to bring you one," Owen said, his lips thin but drawn into a half-smile. 

"Yes, thank you," Armin said. Owen did not move on with his armfuls of the hospital magazine. He rocked back on his heels, hesitant to really say anything. "Is there anything else, sir?"

"Ah, perhaps a close reading might suit you this month."

Owen moved on to the next of the patients, glancing over his shoulder at Armin briefly. The magazine in Armin's lap had a shallow crease on the cover and Armin wondered whether Owen was careless when he held his stack of copies.

The many-headed monster on the cover of The Hydra was as twisting and ferocious as always. Owen did not usually hand out copies of the hospital magazine himself and there had to be some omen in that gesture alone.  

Armin waited until that evening to give the magazine a read. Tired from spending the day tending the Craiglockheart gardens. In his own small patch he was growing Buddleja and the bush with cones of tiny purple flowers was already towering over the shrubs and herbs he had planted around it. The butterflies that flocked to the Buddleja appeared to be unburdened, simply drinking from flowers and happening to pollinate them with each trip between. The weightless fluttering and frittering was absolutely vital to their life yet all Armin could think that it was a simple, carefree existence. He doubted very much butterflies had hospitals like these but he also doubted that butterflies could tend to gardens for leisure.

The scent of Buddleja was subtle on his woollen uniform jacket. He breathed deeply as he sank into one of the armchairs in the common room. He flipped open the front cover of The Hydra and skimmed the editor's note. Owen's words slipped out of Armin's mind as quickly as they had slipped in through his eyes. Exhaustion had settled into Armin's bones and his mind was suffering just as much. He doubted he would have to give the magazine as close a read as Owen had suggested. 

It did not take Armin long to find his piece. A small poem born from the guilt of rejecting his identity despite those periods he lacked his current lucidity and could only recall the life of the boy he had been before becoming somebody else entirely. His own anonymous text below Owen's preface seemed juvenile and dumb. He would stick to the gardening and Dr Brock's suggestions that he write up some research reports if history and geography.

Armin retired to his room with his copy of The Hydra. As he began tearing the page out his hands trembled and he paused to calm himself. Dr Brock had taught him quiet ways of counting down to his relaxation. He reached zero. He continued to tear until his poem was apart from the rest of the magazine. He wrote a brief letter, addressed an envelope to Mr Smith and slid the poem in alongside the letter. He would take it to the post office in the morning. Whether Mr Smith cared to read it or not, Armin was hoping for some vaguely paternal response from the feigned father.

January 1918

Annie Leonhardt was small, sour, and unapologetically German. The first time Armin met her, she was all but sneering at a man who had spat at her, swore and made to strike her. In the time it took Armin to gasp in surprise at the first thing he encountered in the lobby of the old hotel, Annie had felled the man and broke his nose before politely informing him that without German natives like her, the foreign codes could never be deciphered.

That had been fair enough. Unfortunately, the most Armin was able to accomplish on his first day of his new job was to fall in love with Annie Leonhardt.

He spent the first few weeks of his time at the War Office avoiding Annie and trying not to even think about her. He was mostly unsuccessful as it turned out and she ultimately confronted him to ask what his problem was.

He managed to get away with not revealing that he had taken a fancy to her by suggesting they lunch together to resolve any differences between them. At lunch the first thing Annie pointed out was Armin's limp. He shrugged and said it was nothing. The scarring there was much shallower than the other scars that kept him on British soil. Annie asked him what the war was like and he hummed and told her something about rats and lice. She wasn't impressed.

It wasn't the best start but Annie stopped asking Armin questions about the war and about himself. She opened up about the things that she liked about living in England and how she was a little bit afraid that she would never be able to return home.

For some reason Armin took that as an invitation to confess that he was harbouring romantic feelings for her.

Annie was more affectionate than she first appeared. She liked to link arms when they walked together. She liked to whisper her thoughts to Armin before saying something contrary to company. She only drunk alcohol when the sky was dark. She liked the challenge of whatever her job was. She liked Armin for some reason though he had only ever been nervous and reserved around her.   

The club they were in was small, round tables gathered around the edge of the tiny dance floor with the soft glow of lime. Armin had never learnt to dance, not being of the class to have needed to learn properly and not nearly popular enough to have taken the soft hands of girls into his own sweaty ones and boldly pretended to know how to in an attempt to impress them. Annie shrugged and said that she didn't like to dance anyway, sitting primly at their table and craning her neck to try to spot the band before they ascended to the stage.

One of the men from Armin's office hadn't turned up for a few weeks. Initially nobody said anything and it was not as though Armin knew his real name to be able to report the disappearance to the police. Involving the police would probably not have been the best idea anyway. If they got involved they would surely have questions about the nature of their work and they would perhaps request copies of the strategic reports Armin and the missing man had been drawing up for one of the more determined Ministers. If even a single detail escaped Armin's control before he handed over the proposal then his work would have been for nothing.

He glanced at Annie's profile, she was enraptured by the band playing on stage and Armin wanted nothing more than for her to know how her boredom, anger, and happiness were all more beautiful than any expression he had seen before. Armin had pointed the missing man out to Annie exactly three days before his first absence. It was a coincidence but he realised he didn't know anything about Annie. If she disappeared he would have nothing except for her name and the way she looked when she fell in love with music.

*

Mostly to get some peace and quiet, Historia volunteered to fetch wood the heat the house. After the onset of the war their regular merchant refused them, shook his head and highlighted the presence of the forest all around the house. A few young men from the village offered to clear some extra trees a few miles away or so in exchange for a few Hryvnia. Some of the kinder men used to chop the wood into smaller blocks but after a while they too were drafted.

The axe Historia now had to carry with her was cumbersome but it gave her an excuse to take her time. Day after day she would strain her ears for anything that might disturb the peace, but each time the silence grew vaster and the only sounds capable of penetrating it here her own laboured breaths and the whoosh of the axe through the air before the creak of splitting wood. 

Perhaps Historia was too preoccupied with the silence to really pay attention to its absence.

A foreign sound sneaked in with the clickitty-clack of stacking wood. Slowly, Historia finished stacking what she had so far before standing upright, stretching her back and glancing over her shoulder.

Her ears had not tricked her. The intruder looked curious before the look melted away to a countenance Historia was familiar with.

The eyes were those of a rabbit caught in Historia's trap just a week ago. Historia had to swallow down her pity, plunge her small dagger into the trembling flesh of the body before she tore of the strips of furry hide and gutted the creature. This creature trembled only for a moment before it leapt at Historia.

The dull thunk of her skull against the tree directly behind her was distant for a moment. When her eyes opened, vision fluttering like the chest of a fear-stricken rodent, slitted eyes were level with hers, flat and immoveable. The warmth of stale breath was puffing against Historia's mouth. Fingers dug into her shoulders and Historia didn't have a chance of getting away.

She tilted her head up in the way the girls back at the house taught her to do when challenging anybody who was taller than her. She said, "What you are doing here, soldier?"

Confusion flickered in the eyes an inch away from her own. Then followed words that Historia did not understand.

"You're Russian."

No reply.

Historia knew maybe a handful of Russian words but not enough to competently communicate. She repeated her statement in the little Ukrainian she had been taught months ago, just to be sure, and that was greeted with as much of a response as German.

"What... do?" Historia attempted lamely.

The Russian appeared to understand. Backed away. Sniffed loudly. Perhaps as an act of kindness used botched Ukrainian to say, "Have you."

"Have?" Historia asked, once in Ukrainian, once in Russian.

A wide smile broke out on the hard face and Historia had the word parroted back to her in both languages before sudden seriousness overcame the Russian. "Go."

Historia was roughly pulled away from the tree. She struggled but the hands tightened around her wrists and clamped them together in a single grip. "Go, go."

Perhaps too overwhelmed to take things into consideration, it was not until the pair had been walking through the forest for quite some time, quite a distance from the wood Historia had been sent to collect that she thought to question what was actually happening.

"Where are we going?" Historia demanded.

"Hm?"

Obviously using German wasn't going to get a response, but it was the best Historia could do. She was loudest in German. She was angriest in German. She was a fighter in German. In Ukrainian she was uncertain and timid. In a handful of Russian words she was ignorant. In the wilds of Ukraine, the German language was all she had.

"I won't take another step until you tell me what is happening. Where are you taking me?"

Standing face on, "Hm? again. Historia was tugged and she stumbled over a few loose stones and clumps of mud but she managed to dig her heels in and plant herself in the almost silent forest. A finger pointed forwards, South, then, "Ja?"

"No."

"Ja, ja." A small smile and then something Historia could not even begin to understand. She was tugged again and growled her refusal. This time a frown. And then Historia was scooped off her feet and flailing about as she was carried away over the soldier's shoulder.

March 1918

Connie's hat looked too big for his head, Sasha decided, but she noticed the other soldiers all had similar problems. Or it was the style. She wasn't sure which. He did look smart. The buttons on his tunic were dull. Connie's eyes were dull too. Sasha tried a smile. So did Connie.

"You probably won't meet them there, will you?"

"I could be stationed anywhere," Connie shrugged. His fingers lightly grazed his neck before he added, "Their formations are probably different to ours anyway. Different uniforms. Different tactics and all that."

"Obviously."

The platform was noisy. Hundreds of people were saying their last words over the rumble and hiss of the train as it awaited its sentenced passengers. Sasha had to stop thinking of it like that. After all these years they must have been making some headway. It would surely be over soon and then she and Connie could return to the life they knew. Quiet farming might be too quiet for Connie after the excitement of the battlefield, but he would adjust in time.

Sasha was getting ahead of herself. Connie had not even left yet. Considering the letters Marco had sent, Sasha was being a bit too optimistic. She had nothing else though. Optimism it was.

"You will write to me, won't you?"

"Of course. You will need some outlet for your own ridiculousness while I am gone."

Connie was right. Obviously.

April 1918

The lone Frenchman flicked his half-smoked cigarette aside and nodded to Jean in greeting. Jean was confused. If he was going to be killed he would rather it be done quickly than have to go through this uncertainty. He took an involuntary step back as the Frenchman approached and held his breath briefly as though that pause would make his subsequent breaths come out calmer and smoother. It didn't work but at least he could tell that Bossard was just as terrified as he was.

"You see boy?"

Jean's mouth was dry and his legs trembled as the man approached, as small as he was. Jean glanced at Bossard but he appeared not to have any intention of answering. The Frenchman was looking at Jean anyway. He cleared his throat and tried to let saliva pool in his mouth to stop his tongue feeling so useless and dry in his mouth. "Do I see?"

The man's lip twitched. His grip on his bayonet was loose, careless. That in itself seemed dangerous. Jean wasn't stupid enough to attempt to tackle someone who was at ease despite not having left the war behind. His grip did tighten when he noticed Jean's gaze. He said, "No. German bad." He held up his left hand at a point a few inches above his own height and again asked. "You see boy?"

"Have I seen a boy?" Jean clarified with a mime. He first pointed to his chest, then his eye, then held up a hand to around the same height as the hand the Frenchman held up.

"Yes. You see?"

Jean supposed that he had seen a boy. He hadn't got close enough to inspect any further. Bossard had kicked him in the back and grunted at him to keep moving. He recognised the uniform easily enough thought. "English?"

"Yes."

Jean pointed in the direction he and Bossard had come from. The Frenchman thanked Jean and started to move on just as Bossard yelled, "I am going to kill you!"

Bossard's gun was pointed at the Frenchman, he looked ready to actually shoot him. He was trembling though. His terrified shaking grew more violent as the man, now with a steely expression, approached him. He looked to Jean again, asked, "He good?"

"I'll fucking kill you too, Kirstein!"

Jean shook his head and the Frenchman nodded. He stood directly before Bossard, would have been nose-to-nose had their heights allowed it. He formed a gun with his hand and pressed the extended fingertip against Bossard's chest. "Bang."

He smirked, saluted Jean, before he walked leisurely in the direction Jean had pointed in.

Jean looked back to Bossard, saw him frozen in the pose he had taken on before he threatened to kill Jean and the Frenchman. His hands trembled. His eyes were screwed shut. Eventually he whimpered and then swore at Jean. He cleared his throat. Dropped his gun and scrubbed at his eyes.

"I really will fucking kill you if you tell anybody about this," Bossard grunted. "He had better not come back this way because I will kill him too."

It was a pointless thing to say. They were at war. Surely if his resolve was strong enough he would have killed the Frenchman right there when he had the chance. Bossard strode forwards and called back over his shoulder for Jean to hurry up if he ever wanted to see his mama again. Jean remained still for a moment. There was something odd about Bossard's step and after following at a slow pace Jean realised what it was. He caught up at another of the threats against his life and bit back his grin.

Jean could endure this lifestyle a little bit longer knowing that a tiny French man had made Bossard piss his pants.

May 1918

After overhearing some giggling young women from the munitions factory - jaundiced frizz making them appear to Mikasa as angels with calloused hands - discussing a trip to the seaside, Mikasa realised that the summer months would be wasted by rambling over the sloping green countryside and searching for the ghost of Eren. He was obviously no longer in Shiganshina, if he even remained in Britain, and she was stagnating in the sleepy, idyllic farmland. Her brain needed to be refreshed and despite the certain freshness of the air here she was being dulled into submission.

It was easy to see how people lived their whole lives in tiny little towns like these.

Mikasa spent an awfully long time on trains these days. These differed only slightly to the ones back in India. She supposed it was because the trains and rails were the same but then she had never really rode the trains back home. She had heard rumours of how busy the railways could be and in her own private carriage she was isolated from such rumoured hustle and bustle. Until she alighted. On the platform there was no barrier to separate her from the masses as they grinned through their sweat, swiping constantly at their brows and upper-lips, bumping and swaying to carve out their own path against the ever-fluid current of bodies.

She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply to steady her nerves. Filled up her lungs and emptied them of air until her heart was steady and her hands were still. She moved with the current and wondered what there was to do in Weston-Super-Mare.

The air was salty, sharp, and Mikasa's brain easily focused on the caw of seagulls, the giggle squeals of small children, the tumbling of waves, the sandy grit sticking to the roof of her mouth with every breath. It was different to the choking dryness of the dusty air in India. That was cloistering, comforting. This was new, the most exhilarated she had been since stepping onto these shores. On the ship to Britain she had whiled away her hours by reading and sucking the flesh of limes, too distracted to taste the salted air and shiver from the harsh sea winds.

It was nice. She ate some fish and chips, she sat on the sand, removed her boots and stockings and wriggled her toes about in the shallows. Her breath escaped her when her toes began to disappear in the thick mud that anchored her. The mud was rising as the tide washed around her, or maybe she was sinking into it as the tiny waves meticulously carved away the resistance. She was about to be swept away to sea. She was about to become nothingness and everything.

"You are a funny man, Armin."

The accent was strongly unfamiliar, but the name was not. It was not a common name, that much she had learnt after returning to Shiganshina, and she doubted there were too many Armins in all the other towns and cities in Britain. By the time she had yanked her feet out of the suffocating mud beneath the sea, stumbling into the sloshing waves and squinting her eyes against the stinging flecks of ocean in her eyes, she could not see him.

Maybe she was looking for the wrong person. Her brain could only conjure the indistinct image of a tiny blonde boy with hair that tipped over his shoulders and stuck in his eyes all too often. Surely he would be the same age that she was. She should have been looking out for a man with even the vaguest resemblance to her memory. Nothing. Nobody was him.

Nobody was Armin.

She searched, sweeping over the sands and crashing against people who stopped abruptly on the pier. He was nowhere to be seen.

*

Historia's clothes were stiff with grime. Over the past few months she had picked up a few more words of Russian and the soldier - Ymir, she was told by a stranger in an inn who had them work at the inn for her in exchange for translating between the pair - had managed to build up a vocabulary of German words. It didn't matter that Ymir mostly communicated in expletives and grunts regardless of the language she claimed to be speaking. She was infinitely more tolerable not that she said more than "ja" every time she wanted to communicate something to Historia. There was only so much that could be conveyed with a single word and Historia had no idea how anyone could manage to attempt to speak an entire language with a single word.

They had left the inn a few weeks ago. Historia was dirty from having nothing to really aid her scrubbing as she struggled to get the sweat and mud from her clothes. She had not particularly used soap for almost four years but since being away from home her clothes were stiff with the dirty life she had been living.

She sank to the floor, cool and damp with rotting leaves, the earthy smell already permeating the fibres of her clothes. Her coat would never stop stinking of mud. It was a reminder that she was one with the wilds now. She could die here and crumble into the earth much quicker than somebody whose skin had hardened against the world. Somebody who was imbued with the nightmares of iron and explosions.

"Krista," Ymir grunted as she approached from behind the huge oak Historia was leaning against. She repeated the name a few more times, the inflection differing with each attempt, until Historia replied.

"Eat." Ymir squatted before Historia and proffered the carcass of a small mammal. Its grey fur was matted blood-black and the limbs were small, not fully formed. It was a tiny rabbit. Historia cradled her hands around the creature and corrected Ymir.

"Cook."

After skinning the rabbit it would look a lot smaller and cooking the flesh afterwards would be torture. Watching the water and fat bubble out of the meat, rolling onto the little fire and the meat drying and shrinking would leave them with hardly a mouthful each. Historia's appetite had grown large since being taken from her home but she and Ymir had sharpened some from the lack of readily available food.

Whilst Historia set to work with the knife that resided on her belt, Ymir built a small fire. She had changed since their stay at the inn. Perhaps it was the possibility for actual communication that changed her. She was no longer an unknown dressed in the colours of the enemy and resistant to any of Historia's attempted conversation.  

"Queen," Ymir said once the fire was glowing quietly before her crossed legs.

She had been muttering the word in Russian a few times a day for a few weeks now. It had been almost two months - as far as Historia had been able to measure - since they left the inn and she was certain that Ymir would have forgotten the story shared at the beginning of their time there.

"Call me Krista. I was in hiding when this soldier kidnapped me from my temporary home," She had told the inn-keeper with the flicker of candle orange dancing on the faces of the inn-keeper, Ymir and probably Historia herself. "Krista is the name I have taken whilst in hiding as it makes it harder for my family to be found. You see I am an Austrian noble and I am to take over the rule of Austria and maintain relations with the Hungarians if anything should happen in this war."

The inn keeper had frowned for a moment, hummed and then rapidly relayed it to Ymir, the harsh glottal sounds of Russian were much faster than Historia had ever heard before so even by listening out for the sounds her Ukrainian teacher made her parrot was a useless exercise. She understood the widening of eyes though, that and the slow nodding and slight tightening of the lips. Aftwerwards the inn keeper had relayed some information about Ymir - most of it probably false as Historia had provided but nice all the same. To be told that Ymir was a Russian from a Battalion of Death, that it had been her chance to escape the nothingness in her life, that she was happy to have a German life as leverage.

Historia had been right about the tiny rabbit and her stomach gurgled for more food even after she had picked her share of the bones clean. Ymir frowned at the sound and pointed to Historia's stomach. The furrow in her brow deepened and then smoothed a moment later as she said, "More."

"Oh, no. I am really fine. Unless you are still hungry."

"Hungry? No, I am strong," Ymir replied, beating her chest with a tight fist and smirking.

Ymir's smirks and leers made Historia blush when she first started them, her belching and dirty jokes doing nothing to mar the gestures. That side of Ymir was so different to the hard indifference of their first few months together. The lack of food was spearheading a reversion to the indifference. Historia could understand that the lack of energy made it difficult to care about anything past the next meal, though occasionally Ymir would visibly swallow down her hunger as though that itself could fill her belly, and make a joke just long enough for Historia to smile.

June 1918

Pain roiled through Mikasa's body, jolting and rusty, thick with debris. It was surely too soon. This was far different to when she curled into herself on the bed, sheets tangling with her legs as she moved sharply to squeeze out the tearing, screaming. She recalled the averted gazes of the servants at the same point each month. Not only for her, but for them. They were ashamed, even dearest Manpreet who daren't linger too long in Mikasa's quarters except to draw her bath.

In France she didn't have the shame of her servants to aid her.

She inhaled deeply, wincing at the blades of grass that pressed against her cheek, tickled her nose. The fragrance of the wet earth and grass had started off as something unobtrusive but grew more pungent and great clods of the scent were settling in the back of Mikasa's throat. An attempted cough resulted in an ineffectual wheeze. She braced her arms, straining to ignore the sharp blades of pain in her abdomen, and pushed away from the ground.

A few inches of elevation was all she could manage, her strength having long escaped her. It was perhaps a small mercy, because the brambles overhead were grabbing at her dress and her hair as though compelling her to remain, to lie in the underbrush and wither down to rich compost.

The crawl backwards into open air took longer than Mikasa had imagined. Her limbs trembled with the effort of moving and she had no idea that she had rolled this far. She paused when she realised she could go no further. A hill. It should have seemed obvious to her that the momentum she had build up for the roll was due to moving downhill.

Incrementally she turned. Her face felt sticky and her eyes stung so she had no hopes of finally being able to see where she was going. Sharper twigs were grasping at her now with more force so she was confident she was finally escaping the brambles. Not that things were getting any easier for her.

Whimpers swelled into sobs as her hands dropped onto nettles, left hand falling on soft fuzzy leaves, right hand pressing onto the snapped stalks of thick nettles. If they were already flattened it only made sense to bear right. She sucked back the tears that had dripped around her mouth and blended itself with her spittle. She coughed up the shock of liquid that went down the wrong way, pressing herself deeper into the ground when she found she hadn't the energy to hold herself up whilst coughing.

The pricking on her face was sharp and she wished to be able to swat it away but it was a matter of being able to lift her head. She couldn't for a moment  and it was not until she could scrape her hands through layers of dirt that she could start moving again.

The cold mush of mud squelched between her fingers the higher she climbed, and that granted her more purchase than the slippery leaves.

Sometime later there was no higher to climb. Mikasa dropped just beyond a blurring of brightness and wept. Her arms and legs, her back, her head, her face, the palms of her hands, low in her stomach. It was difficult to tell whether the pain was coming from inside or outside of her body. An enemy soldier could time this just right, relieve her of this pain with the effort it took to move their index finger, or if they were in a savage mood they could do it with the strength it took to drive a blade into her body. That sharpness would surely bring with it the certainty of an end.

Nobody came.

The poison sting eventually faded and the cuts and nicks felt duller than their initial tears and slices. Her lungs filled slowly. She rolled onto her back and breathed. The clotted redness between her legs had dried and by the time she would be able to wash she would be armed with flakes of brownish red locked to her legs. A deeper breath. The orange-pink streaks visible through the border of foliage didn't worry her despite the promise of darkness they indicated. Her eyes closed and she thought of the saying Carla had taught her back in Shiganshina.

Red sky in the morning, shepherds' warning. Red sky at night, shepherds' delight.

The red sky at night would be Mikasa's delight too. The orange wisps across the rosy sky were the most substantial clouds she had seen all week so this night could be just as clear and bright as the other French nights she had seen. No matter how bright the sky, Mikasa would have trouble finding her things when it got dark.

She sat up, huffed through the ache that had settled in her bones and stretched her arms above her head. Standing was a slow affair but after dusting off her dress and light jacket as best she could, and scrubbing her knuckles against the tight dryness of her face, she peered through the tall grass beside the path for any sign of her bicycle.

Mikasa came across her letters first. The brown envelopes were scattered in a row as though they had skidded across the grass after slipping out from her bicycle basket. The bicycle itself was on the other side of the path, stood behind a tree to hide it from view. Somebody had passed by and righted it against a tree. She shuffled the letters in her hands but it was difficult to tell whether they had been interfered with. She recollected herself and decided against such a thing happening. She would mention it when the letters arrived at their destination.  

Casting her gaze about she recalled the story she should recite when questioned.

These were love letters between a French politician she worked for and his mistress who was residing in Britain. She had tried to pay for a car but ended up borrowing a bicycle from a girl in exchange for a necklace because the letters were desperately important. The mistress had received a proposal and needed to know what she should do.

Mikasa's handler had tested her delivery of the lines several times, having her explain what she was doing under the pressure of hard, unfeeling gazes of men and women at the old hotel which housed codes and communications. She had to tell the story in English, in French, in broken German, in Japanese, in Punjabi, often without her words being understood and simply to examine her authenticity.

She was good enough. She would be good enough. The breeze was picking up but the sky was still clear. She mounted the bicycle and continued her journey into Paris.

July 1918

Historia's neck was stiff. Her muscles and joints were always stiff these days but today her neck was paining her more than usual. She didn't move. Ymir's fingers moved slowly, languidly at the nape of Historia's neck and she wasn't certain that Ymir would keep this up if she made it obvious that she had woken up.

"Two days ago..." Ymir stopped as abruptly as she began and Historia was too tired to control her reaction. Her breathing returned to normal and she waited for Ymir to continue. There was the scraping sound of Ymir's foot sliding through the debris settled on the forest floor and birds were whistling and singing to one another distantly. Their voices sounded weak, tired, and Historia grew more frightened. Snow was still on the ground when they had met in January but it was melting and the season was giving way to more tolerable weather. It was sweltering, warm and sometimes Historia longed to strip away the layers until there was nothing left but she knew she could not shed the clothes forever. Before long the air would become more frigid by the morning. Already they were having to resort to finding weak birds and keeping close to the nearby stream to try their luck at catching fish. She shuddered at the thought of their options when the mammals hibernated and they fell out of favour with the seasons.

Ymir's hand had stopped in Historia's hair and she tucked Historia's head under her chin more securely. 

"Two days ago," She tried again, "People were nearby. It is unlucky for me that they were not German. Russian soldiers. Like me. Different to me. They will probably kill me. And then you. If they came you would run, wouldn't you? You would run and run and never come back. You would never tell anybody about any of this. You would run all the way to Ukraine, back to your house. If that was no longer safe You could probably run all the way back to your empire. Your feet would bleed right to the bone but that is the price you will pay to be safe. You understand, don't you?"

She tugged a lock of hair from the root and Historia realised she was supposed to answer this, asleep or otherwise.

"Mostly."

Ymir laughed, deep and exasperated. The sound stopped short and she was serious when she said, "You will run."

"What about you? Will you run?"

"I will be dead."

Oh, Historia thought. That hardly seemed fair. She dislodged her head from under Ymir's chin and gave her a hard look. There was no laughter in her face now. There was only the strange soldier of unknown words and unknown thought from the winter past.

"You won't die," Historia said firmly. She wriggled herself free and stood, stretched and asked about food. Ymir was slower to rise, stretching her limbs where she sat, leaning against the tree, before yawning with her mouth wide open and her eyes screwed shut.

Ymir held out her hand. "Fish?"

Neither of them were particularly accomplished at fishing and they hadn't the equipment to give it a proper try but they could drink fresh water and wash their faces well and if they did catch something they would have something to stave off the debilitating, cramping emptiness.

"Fish," Historia agreed.

August 1918

Jean frowned at the German who came to pause next to him as he twisted spare lengths of wire around the barbed wire perimeter. The German crouched down. Bertholdt. He sniffed and Jean wanted to take the wire pressed to his palm and use a curled fist to stab it right into Bertholdt's leg.

Instead, he asked, "What?"

"How are you, Jean?" Plain German, conversational. Jean was most definitely going to stab Bertholdt if he stuck around for much longer. Threatening words stuck in Jean's throat and he waited for Bertholdt to either continue or leave. Unfortunately Bertholdt decided to continue. "Would you like some chocolate?"

"I am going to kill you, you utter piece of garbage."

Bertholdt reeled, righting his crouch before clearing his throat. "What is the matter?"

Jean shoved his shoulder roughly. He chickened out at the last second, tucking the sharp of the wire into the palm of a loose fist so his shove was more of an ineffectual punch. Bertholdt fell back onto the slosh of mud anyway.

"How did it happen?" Jean growled, looming over the man who had shrunk at the question. "What were his last words? Why did you let it happen?"

Bertholdt stuttered and mumbled and never really said much of anything. Not that Jean was expecting an honest answer.

"You were there to make him read your stupid poetry every day but when it came to actually being there for him... Where were you? Mixed in with the rest of your lot? You should have been right there with him, no matter what."

As usual, Bertholdt was where he shouldn't have been and the thought that he hadn't sneaked in with the Austrian soldiers when it was most important was a heavy, unsettled weight in his stomach. Unless He had been there and done nothing to defend Marco. 

"I'm sorry, Jean."

"You're sorry? That makes up for everything." Jean rolled his eyes, impressed at his self control. The height difference didn't bother him. He'd take a punch in the face, in the gut, if it meant he could mete out retribution on Bertholdt for not doing anything.

"But you didn't-"

Bertholdt was silenced with a slap. It was a weak move on Jean's part but he didn't want to have to use any of the tools he had as weapons. He wasn't even afraid of the sway the Germans had over his own commanding officers. He could always persuade Bossard to get him out of too much trouble, but he didn't want to cause any trouble for his superiors. Marco would have done anything not to cause trouble for his superiors so Jean causing trouble with Marco as the reason would have the man spinning in his grave, wherever that was.

Bertholdt was right though. Jean hadn't done anything either. Surely he could have tried harder. It proved difficult to do much when unconscious in a shell hole.

"Stay the fuck away from me," Jean managed to say. His voice cracked and his eyes stung but he managed to inject enough venom into his words for his crying not to be pathetic.

September 1918

Reiner was American; loud, muscled and devastatingly handsome by his own admission. Armin might admit the same thing if he were pressed to but so far he had never been made to answer. He listened intently to every word Armin said, and whenever he spoke it was a yoking accent of over pronounced drawling and softened 'V's. It was odd and strange but there was a novelty to it as he had never met an American before.

Annie didn't much like Reiner but they had both ended up friends with Armin. It was no longer a problem after a couple of months, after seventy-eight days. There was a sudden absence in cruelly curled lips and hissed German, sneers, sarcasm, and failed attempts to ditch Reiner.

On the other hand, most other people appeared to take a liking to Reiner. It was difficult to take stock of people's genuine reactions when everybody was drunk and taken in by the novelty of whatever Reiner called friendliness. Armin needed air, air that wasn't stale with cigarette smoke, stagnant lies,  and a haze of alcohol from the habitual pub attendees, and not a moment later Reiner seemed to decide he needed some of the same.

"I know you're only recently coming to terms with things, but think about this seriously. I know it is too much to ask to be able to hold hands and tell people about the person I love, but even to have the little things would be terrific. Don't ignore your feelings. Remember how you felt about Annie and then she disappeared? The whole world is at war. Anything could happen. Don't let this moment pass you by without being honest to yourself."

Armin blinked his eyes a few times and soothed the burn. He placed his hands over Reiner's where they were cupping his face. He nodded. Anything could happen, but honesty didn't come easy as a stranger in the village he grew up in. He moved his hands to lightly hold the front of Reiner's shirt.

"I will be honest."

"Good, good," Reiner said hoarsely. He nodded and his hands gripped at Armin's shoulder and his waist.

"I don't know if I am ready. Like you said, I remember how I felt about Annie. And then she..." Armin glanced away, dropped his hands and tried not to flinch when Reiner released him and threw his arms into the air.

"You think I'm a spy?"

"I'm not saying that."

"What are you saying?" Reiner yelled. He paused and pinched the bridge of his nose. When he next spoke he sounded less wound up. "I'm sorry. I don't understand."

There were better places for them to be having this exchange. The street outside the pub was empty, and had been the entire time Armin had been out here with Reiner, but anybody could exit the pub at any moment. Anybody could meander down the street and see them or hear them.

Armin took a long step back and attempted to hide the burn of shame that was licking at him. He had forgotten himself. Anybody could see him. He might even be recognised by somebody who knew him in his youth. He should have paid attention when Mr Smith asked if going out would be such a good idea. More things for Reiner to have no understanding of.

"We should return to my father's house." Armin turned on his heel, striding quickly and gaze latching onto any movements cloaked by the dark. After a moment he heard rushed footsteps following him and Reiner kept pace easily as he gaped.

"Are you going to ignore me?"

"Of course not. I wouldn't. I don't want this conversation to take place somewhere like that. I only wanted to say that I need more time."

"More time?" Reiner repeated incredulously. His voice was rising again which was not so much of a problem until he added, "How much more time can you need when we have already lain together?"

Armin hobbled more quickly.

"I'm sure your father already knows."

Anger was fuelling Armin's pace. It was mostly anger at himself but the more Reiner spoke, yelled, the more the anger was growing towards him. Over his shoulder Armin spat out the venom that had pooled in his mouth, "You mean you told him."

"Why else would you bring me to meet your father?"

An excuse to come home. Just to be able to stroll past the house he grew up in to refresh his memory of it, maybe catch a glimpse of his parents. To consult Mr Smith on his opinion, to see whether he had grown tired of playing father to two stupid boys who hadn't the decency to take back their lie.

Armin didn't answer. Mr Smith's house was in sight and the vision brought with it a twinge of pain in Armin's leg. The front door was unlocked and he wordlessly waited for Reiner to catch up before bolting the door shut and walking to the sitting room.

"Armin, Braun. I didn't expect you back quite so early."

"Reiner grew tired of his audience more quickly than I thought too," Armin offered with a small smile. "Tea?"

The skin around Mr Smith's eyes tightened some and his lips thinned for just a moment before he relaxed his features and neatly folded his newspaper. "Not for me, thank you. I must be off to bed at this time."

"Of course," Armin muttered as he crossed the room to assist Mr Smith up and out of his plush armchair. Mr Smith huffed through his nose, annoyed, but Armin saw it through until Mr Smith was standing, at his full height and thinly masking the glare he had for Armin. Armin nodded, ignored it, offered tea to Reiner who had been stood dumbly at the door the whole time. He refused and Armin yawned, stretched his arms and quickly snapped them back down again when he felt his shirt slide up and expose a sliver of his stomach. "I think I should also make myself scarce."

Reiner raised his eyebrow at the phrase but said nothing. He bid Armin and Mr Smith good night before making own way up the stairs and to his room.

Eight minutes later, Armin was dressed for bed and sitting on his bed as he awaited the light tap on his bedroom door. When it came it was quieter than Armin had expected and Armin took care to hush his own footsteps as he hurried to open the bedroom door.

Mr Smith silently slipped into the room and softly shut the door behind him.

His voice was low when he asked, "What was it that you needed to speak about so urgently?"

"What do you think of him?"

"Surely that is more your territory." A smirk. Armin hadn't expected to even hear a jibe at his own expense so Mr Smith must have been in a more favourable mood than he had been pretending to be.

"I'm not certain I know what you mean by that, but...  He isn't an unkind man. He is perhaps too kind. He knows about the shell shock. He knows that I lied about my age. I was sure he would by this point have known that I lied about my relation to you."

"What does him knowing about you have to do with how kind he is?"

"The lie makes me twenty-two. I don't actually turn eighteen until next month. I would find it difficult to trust somebody who was only in the position to befriend me because of such a lie."

Mr Smith frowned, crossed his solitary arm across his chest and peered down at Armin. "Be vague. What is your job?"

"Spies in foreign territories."

"I see."

"He asked me if I thought he was a spy. He keeps bringing up Annie. Asking me if I think he is like her."

Another smile. "You don't have the best luck, do you?" Armin glowered at his own toes, not ungrateful enough to direct it to the man himself. Mr Smith continued, "I think you already know the answers you are asking me for. I am glad you saw fit to tell me. Do not write to anybody unless strictly necessary.  Suggest some minor alterations but do not let on that you know anything. Perhaps tell him that he does not yet have my approval."

Armin bit back his smile. "Is that judgement independent of my concerns?"

"Of course. I don't like how familiar he is being after only having met my son a few months ago."

Armin scratched at the back of his neck and pressed a hand to his cheek in an attempt to cool the heat in his face. He hesitated a moment before saying, "About writing letters, have you been able to write to Eren yet?"

"I don't think now is the best time to discuss that."

Armin didn't have to try to hide his smile anymore. "I understand. Goodnight."

"Sleep well, Armin."

Armin slipped into his bed and extinguished the light beside the bed before Mr Smith had opened the door to leave. Words died in his mouth and he was glad of it. Boldness would have been to his detriment. Armin didn't remember being quite so cruel. His only saving grace recently was to keep his mouth clamped shut and let the words fester and die on behind his teeth before he had a chance to ask, "Did your son ever get to sleep in this bed?"

October 1918

"You were gone for a while," Historia commented, forcing a casual tone out through gritted teeth.

"Hunting," Ymir grunted.

Historia hummed and shrugged as she scooped a handful of leaves onto the tiny fire she had built. The dry, curled leaves crackled and fizzled in an instant, sending choking smoke into Historia's eyes. It was a stupid thing to do but she could not bring herself to regret her stupidity when this would be so memorable. It was a break in the mundane reality of starving and sleeping with sharp stones pressing through the thinning threads of her clothes.

The arms that clamped around Historia's shoulders and tilted her back were a bit of a surprise but then being pressed against Ymir who was chuckling softly was not quite worth the swallowed squeal and flailing of arms.

"Miss me. You miss me."

Historia was not too proud to admit that she had missed Ymir. She hadn't seen another soul since she left the inn and she was finally getting used to Ymir's pace. She was maybe a bit too proud to admit as much aloud.

Ymir spoke again but Historia had only been half-listening so she missed the part of the sentence she could attempt to understand. She couldn't string together two words of Russian but by now she could just about reach an accurate interpretation of the Russian responses to her German questions.

"Pardon?"

"I miss you." Historia's face contorted all of its own will and she fought to change the expression for all she was worth. Ymir tipped her back further until Historia was vaguely aware of her head being cradled in Ymir's lap. Through squinted eyes, Historia spotted the huge grin on Ymir's face. Her voice was soft. She said, "You too. You also miss me."

"A little bit," Historia allowed.

"Stay with me, yes? We hunt, we cook, we eat, we sleep. yes? Ja?"

"We already do, We do that now."

Ymir frowned and opened her mouth. She clicked her mouth shut again and after a moment muttered, "Different. I mean differently."

"You idiot," Historia chided as she stroked stray tangles away from Ymir's grubby face. Her own laboured breathing would have been more than enough for the both of them if it were not for the fact that her lungs and Ymir's were not one and the same. She inhaled deeper, for longer, forcing out the barking sobs that tore through her chest.

She could breathe again. Barely. She was doing a lot better than Ymir.

"I'm not really important. I just said it so that you wouldn't kill me. Stupid."

Both of them had been too tired to run but they had to when the shouts rang out. Abandoning their meal and the equipment Ymir had removed from her belt whilst she rested, they bolted, feet falling firmly between the great twisting roots they had learnt to navigate. It hadn't rained too recently so they could gain secure footing even if they did have to resort to leaping from the roots that had arched free of the forest floor.

Historia hadn't understood the language. She only thought to run. Ymir had the same idea and after a few paces was close enough for Historia to reach out and grab at her hand, dragging her out of a path that could have driven her right into the thick trunk of an ancient oak. The voices receded and Historia thought all would be fine if they kept running. She remembered something about running until she bled to the bone, until she wore down the soles of her shoes and then the soles of her feet because only then could she guarantee her freedom.

And her boot skidded. Conkers and their spiked green shells loose on the ground were not the best footing when being pursued by strange soldiers.

As some of the soldiers yelled into the forest, ferocious, and birds shot into the air and abandoned their nests at the sounds below, Historia's ankle rolled to the side and she slid across the ground, dirt and dust clinging to her face and clogging up her mouth.

Quickly she got up, and ran. She had to run. She had to escape. With a glance over her shoulder she spotted Ymir, ailing. Against her better judgement, she slowed. Ymir caught up and Historia grabbed again at her hand. Ymir's hand was loose. Historia gripped with all her might. Ymir would also have to keep going until her feet wore to nothing.   

They didn't manage to get much further. Historia was mostly confused by the lack of soldiers falling upon them and at least interrogating them on the spot if they were not going to shoot. Silence. After the birds had flown there was nothing. Of course the insects were dying and squirrels were probably bedding down for the winter.

Ymir was groaning quietly, chin tight to her chest. Historia stroked Ymir's hair back from her face and knelt beside her curled body.

"We need to run."

Ymir nodded, hummed. "You," She said. She stopped. Her face smoothed out and there was no trace of laboured breaths and she was not fighting to spit out her words. She switched to the tongue that was more comfortable in Historia's mouth, and after all this time unfamiliar to her ears. "You need to run now."

*

Dearest Armin,

It has been too long since we last spoke. I am glad to have this opportunity. I had never been more glad to have a week of rest, away from the Hate each morning and the slow days that have turned me to a dullard. Being passed the letter from you has perhaps been the sweetest of moments of my life. To have you back, to know that you are well, I feel renewed.

Despite my joys I do wonder why you were so vague in your own letter. Whatever your pursuits I wish they bring you happiness. You deserve it after what you have been through. I hope to have the same kindness when judgement is passed on me. I understand that you shan't be returning to my side here so I will do my best to quickly bring an end to this and return to your side at home.

It shames me to admit that this letter was difficult to write. I have had the assistance of Second Lieutenant Owen who recognised your name and insisted on writing a draft for me to copy.  He did the same for me when writing the letter of Apology to Mr Smith. You must have made quite the impression on Owen, enough for him to turn a blind eye to what we did. I can only hope that Mr Smith will be able to offer the same forgiveness one day.

Love always, 

Eren

November 1918

Eren flailed against the arms that clamped around him but whoever had grabbed at him was far more evasive than Eren could cope with. This was entirely unlike the time a French Commander came to retrieve him, a message from the soldier Eren had been patrolling with to say that they had been attacked and Eren disappeared during the escape. When Lance Corporal Rivaille had apprehended him there was a prelude of wakefulness settling into Eren's bones - boot toe sharp in his ribs before he was dragged to standing by his collar.

He was shoved. The darkness disguised the gnarled roots that twisted free of the ground and tripped him up, his hands barely saving his face from grazing the sharp bark of the tree that stopped him.

"Eren Jaeger." He glanced over his shoulder but it was too dark to see much. He waited, his eyes as wide as they could be without the air stinging too much. Eventually he could distinguish darker patches in his vision which he took to be trees. He could not quite see the person who had brought him here but he could tell exactly where they stood - three paces to the left and five paces back - but the voice was unfamiliar.

He didn't know whether it was wiser to admit to his identity or not.

"You are Eren Jaeger, aren't you?"

The voice was closer this time and there had not even been a rustle of leaves or a crack of a twig on the ground to warn him of the movement. He was lost in France and he hadn't the slightest idea how to return to his troops. Here was somebody who knew who he was so that was all he had to latch onto. He nodded very slightly.

A relieved sigh.

"I was worried. I has been some years and Armin was sparing with his descriptions of where you might be, what you might be like."

He turned entirely, facing the voice in the darkness. If he tilted his head just so he could just about see that this person was the same height as him.

"I apologise if this is rude but, who are you?"

Hesitation. And then, "I am a family friend. I shan't say much more for the moment as I fear you may come to hate me in time, but what I plan to do is for your own good."

"And what might that-"

Eren was unable to finish the question, his arms barely rising in time to prevent a blow that would cause him some injury. He blinked his eyes against the darkness, wishing his vision would become more acute. He was absolutely certain that being attacked was in no way for his own good. He tried to force back the arm but his efforts were met with a boot jabbed deep into his gut. Doubled over, he heaved and ineffectually waved a hand above his head. The blow to the back of his head was sharp enough to be the last thing he was aware of.

Aside from the throbbing of his skull, Eren was more than well aware of the cold tightness at his wrists and ankles. His muscles had seized from being folded in the way they were and the smallest stretch of arms and legs to loosen them was enough to reveal the full limits of his mobility.

He coughed dryly. His tongue was thick in his mouth and though he was used to thirst he would have been afforded something to quench his thirst at some point. It was too dark to see further than the end of his nose, so for many hours he only had the growing cotton dryness expanding in his mouth to tell the time.

A guard came. German, obviously. Eren had never heard of the Germans using people pretending to be friends to capture prisoners though. He had assumed they just did it the normal way, not that word of these tactics would possibly have got back to the home trenches.

*

The constant thudding was still there. He could barely even hear it now but it was as present as the rush of blood thumping in his chest. The constant thudding was not a solitary presence, the high-pitched wailing was just audible, a wavering whistle above the rumbling rush of the thudding of his pulse or perhaps the explosions all around.

This uniform was too tight. He had more issues than the colour being wrong. The person he had taken this uniform from was too short but they were the tallest person with a uniform going spare so Bertholdt could not complain. It itched more than his did and the thick musk when he swung the coat over his shoulders made his chest tighten around his lungs and for a moment he considered not doing this at all. He had gone ahead with it anyway. In his own country he would be a deserter so he probably would not be allowed to return freely. If they came looking for him they might let him off, laugh it off because he had only ever got as far as mingling with allied troops and it wasn't enough of an escape to warrant shooting at dawn.

The great splashes of dirt rose into the sky. The rain that followed was not refreshing and cooling as Bertholdt would have liked but none of this situation was what he would have liked. Already there were bodies, lifeless in ditches with ground water seeping its way through the skin to bloat the corpses.

The faces were not the one he was looking for though. Not that it was a bad thing.

Thirty bodies later, Bertholdt found him. He was crouching, determination etched onto his features and a spark in his eyes that Bertholdt was hoping not to see. Bertholdt ran up to him, grabbed at his belt to stop him just as he made to leap up.

Jean swung his elbow back but Bertholdt stopped the swing with a sturdy grip.

"You?"

Bertholdt didn't have time to explain himself and he doubted either of them would be able to hear it anyway. One sharp thrust of the butt of a bayonet was enough to knock Jean out. He couldn't struggle now but it was harder than expected to drag him into a gash in the earth that fell over half a dozen feet deep. The bodies already in there made for adequate camouflage.

Jean would be found eventually. He would not be thanking Bertholdt any time soon though. He had done all he could. At this point it didn't matter which direction he took to run. Whether it was by shells, bullets or blade, a soldier would get him at some point.